


The Reichenbach Fall, according to CLAMP

by Lexigent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, CLAMP, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/pseuds/Lexigent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Real people are not called Sherlock Holmes. There are no Consulting Detectives in the 21st century. Everything that he thought had happened over the last eighteen months was a combination of the writings of a Victorian gentleman and John’s own fever- and drug-addled brain.</i>
</p><p>John is trapped in an alternate dimension straight after the Fall and makes his way back to Sherlock only to be confronted with even more sinister goings-on. Based on <a href="http://curlyfoureyes.tumblr.com/post/21276398685/if-sherlock-were-written-by-clamp">this conversation/prompt.</a></p><p>Includes a little coda to cushion some of the angst, for those who are that way inclined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reichenbach Fall, according to CLAMP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Santheum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santheum/gifts).



> My friends Curly and Kafers had a conversation about [what Sherlock would be like if it had been written by CLAMP](http://curlyfoureyes.tumblr.com/post/21276398685/if-sherlock-were-written-by-clamp).
> 
> And once they got to interdimensional travel and keeping souls in violins, I really couldn't stop myself. I do think that after all the pain that this show inflicted on us, I maybe needed a way to return the favour. So here goes.
> 
> Big thanks go to [pillow_face](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pillow_face) for reading the first draft to make sure it was on the right track, and for making some helpful suggestions. All remaining mess is my own.

 

“Goodbye, John.”

John’s phone clicks as Sherlock presses the “disconnect” button.

“No,” John breathes. The figure on the rooftop moves, spreads its arms, leans forward, and then all John can do is watch as his best friend falls to his death.

He rushes forward when he hears the crunch of bone on cement. He has to—he needs to—get to Sherlock—and he’s a split second too late to see the cyclist who hits him in the side with full force. He falls to the ground before he half knows what hit him. His head connects with the pavement, and the lights go out.

There’s a sharp pain in his shoulder when he comes to. He’s in a hospital bed. The bright light stings in his eyes and he takes some moments to adjust to it. There’s a nurse sitting next to his bed, who smiles at him when she sees that he’s awake.

He tries to form a word, but the signal doesn’t quite make it from his brain to his mouth.

“Sher— Sherlock…”

He’s not sure if the fogginess is from the fall on the head or from some kind of anaesthetic. He doesn’t feel pain in his head though, so maybe he’s on painkillers as well.

The nurse looks like she understood what he said, although he’s not sure what to make of her smile. It’s the special kind of professional smile that people like her and John reserve for children and dementia patients. He bites his tongue.

“Who’s Sherlock?”

John swallows. “He’s my…” _Flatmate? Friend? Would-be lover?_ No. He needs to start at the other end. He licks his lips and concentrates hard on getting the words out. They come on broken, slurred chunks.

“Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. My flatmate.” He sighs. “He’s… He’s dead. This morning, I… how long have I been out?”

“John,” the nurse starts, and her rehearsed professional compassion makes him clench his fist.

“You’re in Queen Elizabeth Hospital in London. You were injured while on active duty in Afghanistan. Your shoulder was hit by a bullet. It shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. You sustained substantial blood loss. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last 24 hours.”

John feels like he’s just taken a punch to the face.

 _None of it was real_.

Whatever drugs he’s on, they’re making thinking much harder than it should be. He hopes most of it is the anaesthetic, because that takes only a couple of hours to wear off.

He nods, trying to look as if he’s taking in the nurse’s statement.

“So, there’s no Sherlock Holmes, then,” he says, careful to enunciate every word. “No 221B Baker Street.”

“I think you’ll find it’s a bit more complicated than that. John…” She hesitates, not quite sure how to finish the sentence.

“Have you ever heard of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”

*****

John turns the paperback over and puts it on his nightstand in shock.

Real people are not called Sherlock Holmes. There are no Consulting Detectives in the 21st century. Everything that he thought had happened over the last eighteen months was a combination of the writings of a Victorian gentleman and John’s own fever- and drug-addled brain.

His world has been shattered twice in one day. His eyes are burning from staring at small print all day, but there is no release. No tears. There’s only an unrelenting ache in his chest thFat runs deeper than the physical pain of the gunshot wound. He catches himself thinking, _And I don’t even have a bloody gun to finish the job_ , and he’s not even shocked with himself.

There comes a time to face the dawn, as it inevitably must. A time to be lectured on his condition and about how he’s now unfit for active duty. _Well, at least I got that one right_ , he thinks as he grinds his teeth. He’s looking at physio, at a bedsit in east London, and, of course, at therapy. They schedule his appointments for the next weeks and discharge him two weeks later with pins in his shoulder and some instructions on what he can and can’t do.

In their first session, his therapist suggests he keep a journal to record his dreams, and anything that might occur to him. John almost laughs out loud. _Like I can’t see what you’re doing here. Like I’m going to share any of that with you._

*****

He dreams of Afghanistan sometimes, of desert dust and camouflage and boys with barely a touch of facial hair being blown up by IEDs. Saving lives and losing lives, patching them together so they can go out there until they get hit by the next projectile. But the moments when he succeeds in defeating death, and his own exhaustion, and the company are united in knowing why they fight, those are the memories he relishes.

These are the good kinds of dreams. _I’ve fought and survived all that_ , he thinks when he wakes up from them. _I can fight and survive all this as well_.

The nightmares are something else entirely. Sometimes, it’s just re-living that moment in front of Bart’s, hearing the click after Sherlock’s last words. In his dreams, he stands rooted to the spot and can’t move a muscle. He doesn’t rush forward, like he did when it happened (if indeed it did). He’s unable to take his eyes off the tragedy unfolding in front of him and unable to do anything to stop or prevent it happening.

But even that is not the worst of it. No, because after these, he can tell himself that _that wasn’t real. That never happened in the first place._

The worst nights are those that have him conjure up the brighter images of Sherlock’s and his life together. Chasing across rooftops on the first night they met. Giggling like schoolchildren in the hallway of 221B, at Buckingham Palace. Pulling rank at a secret Army base to help Sherlock with an investigation.

The shock of coming to from these kinds of dreams barely fades, and having to tell himself _but that, all of that, wasn’t real either_ shatters him on more than one occasion. If it wasn’t for doctors’ appointments that he has to keep, he’d stay in bed all day after those dreams.

*****

It’s a particularly bad therapy session a month later that changes things. John’s just had his shoulder unpinned the previous day, but it’ll take a lot of physio before it’s back to normal.

John has no idea how to talk to his therapist. She doesn’t understand that he’s not traumatised by the war and that Sherlock wasn’t a delusion. This time, they spend twenty minutes in solid silence before John decides that he really doesn’t have any more time for this. He picks up his coat and slams the door on his way out.

He needs to tackle this _his_ way. He takes a glance at the Tube map to figure out the route, then makes his way to the platform.

The statue that greets him outside Baker Street Tube Station is ludicrous. John looks up at it and shakes his head. _You’re nothing like my Sherlock_ , he thinks, and that thought makes him feel better than he has been all week.

He walks on the side with the even numbers and keeps an eye on the increasing house numbers on the opposite side of the street.

There’s no black door with a brass knocker and an implausible sign. No Speedy’s Café. Instead there is “The Sherlock Holmes Museum”, complete with a Victorian-era bobby outside the front door making sure that the gaggle of tourists waiting to go in queue properly.

John stops dead in his track on the pavement, takes a deep breath, and then breaks into a fit of hysterical laughter. He’s completely aware that that’s what it is and that he may finally be cracking, but he makes no effort to stop it. This is, quite simply, the most ridiculous thing he has ever seen. He’s not even going to bother going in there. Instead, he walks on towards Regent’s Park and sits on a bench.

 

There’s something that’s just _not quite right_ about this place. This London. Like when you’re on a ship and the horizon just doesn’t seem to be straight, but it’s because the ship is leaning into the wind so you’re standing at an angle.

He looks around him, trying to put his finger on what it is. There’s no horizon, so that doesn’t help. Maybe it’s the colours. Are trees supposed to be that shade of green? Or maybe it’s the way people get around. They always used to take cabs, Sherlock and him. In this city, everyone seems to use the Tube and the buses.

He chuckles, half expecting a flood light to fall out of the sky. _The Watson Show._ It’s the only explanation that makes sense—and yes, he does realise how insane and warped that is. But once you’ve eliminated the impossible—

Hang on. There’s a sound here that doesn’t belong. He stops his train of thought, closes his eyes and listens. Over the din of the traffic on the main street behind him, he can hear the soft sounds of a violin piece. It’s a solo violin. It’s not a piece John is familiar with, but it captures him instantly. A long, slow, achingly beautiful tune on the lower strings, and then unexpected leaps high up in the registers, a drawn-out minor-key figure of sadness and longing.

“Are you composing?” John whispers.

There’s no answer. Instead, the piece starts over again, with a few changes in the tune.

A smile spreads across John’s face. Maybe there is another explanation. It’s just as crazy as the thought that his life is a TV show, but he supposes that’s alright. His life has that kind of quality to it these days, he might as well embrace it.

*****

He puts twice as much work into his physio now, to the point where the physiotherapist has to rein him in and emphasise that it’s important not to do too much too soon.

He tells his regular therapist about Afghanistan and the dreams he has about that. He mentions going up to Baker Street—although they’ve never explicitly discussed his supposed delusion, he knows that she knows. She’s read his file.

“To reassure myself,” he says, and she smiles and nods.

“I’m glad you went. You need to accept that it wasn’t real. It looks like you’re making good progress. Well done.”

John licks his lips to rein in the smirk that is about to form. _Oh, you’ve got no idea_.

*****

Motivation and determination are all well and good, but how do you actually set out to recover a dream? To find a ghost? It’s not a case of stepping through the looking-glass or into the wardrobe and ending up in the Other Place—he knows, he has tried.

He sits up late at night, mapping out the places in Sherlock and his London against this weird version of the city that he’s living in at the moment. From what he knows of ghosts, they frequent specific places, and they hang around the living because there is some unfinished business in their past. He’d always supposed Sherlock, even in his living state, had more than one skeleton in his closet, so it makes some kind of sense.

He plans out a few walks for the next couple of days. He needs the exercise anyway, so it’ll be good even if he turns up nothing. In any case, he’s finally feeling like he’s doing something again.

*****

He’s in Green Park, a week later, when he hears it again. His walks earlier that week have taken him around most of their major haunts in the centre of London, with no success. It’s time to branch out. The increasing sense of desperation that he’s been feeling all week is in no way related to coming home empty-handed every night...

The piece runs smoother now, he thinks it’s sped up a bit since the last time. It’s still unmistakably the same, but there’s more expression, more confidence, less experimenting. John stands still in the middle of the park and listens, intent on catching every note.

 _So we did go to Buckingham Palace_.

When the piece finishes, it’s like it’s taken a piece of John with it.

_What now?_

“What now?” he asks the empty air.

No answer. Of course there’s no answer. He’s standing in an empty park.

 “Sherlock, what now? Come on, answer me. I’ve been hunting you.”

 No music either.

 “Is this it?” he all but shouts as he kicks a small stone on the ground with vigour. Soil and grass fly upwards with it.

He catches the eye of a passer-by throwing him an odd look and suddenly realises the futility of what he’s doing.

“I’ve walked across this mad city for a week, and for what?”

He throws his head back, a humourless imitation of a laugh escaping his throat. “For ten seconds’ worth of music. No wonder everyone thinks I’m batty. I am.”

He clenches his fists in frustration, turns on his heel and walks back the way he came.

*****

He can’t hope to exorcise his demons by chasing a dream. He needs to get his act together and start living in this life. This London with too many buses and too few cabs and a horizon that’s permanently out of whack.

Get better. Find a job. Do something useful with himself. Forget about Sherlock and move on.

His hands are shaky with anger when he lets himself into his flat and all but punches the light switch. The lightbulb flickers on and throws its cold glow over the empty single bed, the desk with his notebook on top of it, the door through to the tiny kitchen.

 He swallows hard. _This is it. This is all there is. Nothing is real apart from this._

He hangs up his coat, gets his phone from the pocket and goes through the contacts list. He doesn’t want to be on his own right now, especially not in this flat. He wants to get a drink and talk to someone who isn’t his therapist.

His old mate from pre-Army days, Mike Stamford, seems like a good bet. John sends the text and gets a positive reply a few minutes later. He sighs with relief.

*****

He falls into bed that night, heavy and content after too much beer and better food than he’s had in weeks. Mike decided he looked like he needed feeding and so dragged him to an Indian restaurant. After the first spoonfuls of an exceptional korma, John caught himself thinking that, yes, maybe, this strange version of London had good things to offer.

He wakes up from a dream about Sherlock’s and his first and last Christmas together. John was drinking whisky and Sherlock was playing the violin for him and Mrs. Hudson…

The dream is gone, but the violin is still there. It’s not an innocent Christmas tune, but the same sad, haunting piece as before.

John curses under his breath and mutters, “Oh, for God’s sake, stop it.”

The music continues. It’s louder than the other times he’s heard it, but then, this is the dead of night, when everything seems louder anyway.

John holds his hands over his ears, tries to cover his head with his pillow.

It doesn’t work. He can hear the music inside his head and feels his heartstrings pulled in spite of himself.

The piece is slower than the last time. Even more expressive and more punctuated, an insistent call of heartache and longing. John sits up in bed and blinks a few times.

He sees the outline of Sherlock’s body against a flicker of light from their fireplace, his fingers almost caressing the violin. He has his back turned to John, and John stands behind him now, resting his hand on the cool leather of Sherlock’s armchair. He knows that this isn’t real, that there are at least fifteen different reasons why it can’t be. He looks down at his hand and moves it across the leather.

_Feels real enough…_

The figure with the violin turns around. It’s unmistakably Sherlock. He doesn’t stop playing or say anything. His fingers seem glued to the bow and strings, an image that gives John the odd sense that Sherlock and the instrument are the same creature.

Then Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s. For a split second John forgets how to breathe.

_Don’t give up. I know you can find me._

Sherlock’s lips haven’t moved, but the words are there in John’s head, jostling against his other thoughts. John stretches out a hand, but Sherlock keeps on playing and just looks at him. There’s a silent message in his eyes.

_You know where you have to go, don’t you?_

John stands transfixed for a moment. Then he nods. He thinks he’s understood it now. He takes his hand off the chair, lifts his fingertips off the leather, and the moment the connection is broken, he wakes up in his bed, on his back, under a duvet.

It’s like he’s fallen over backwards so hard that it knocked the wind out of him. He sits up and coughs, then rubs his hand across his face while he tries to collect his thoughts.

It’s a crazy idea, but it makes sense at the same time. At this point, it’s not like John has anything left to lose. It needs to wait until morning, though, and he does need to rest.

He turns over and sees Sherlock’s face behind his closed eyelids. He falls asleep with a smile and the thought that if this doesn’t work, then at least he’ll have final proof that none of it is real.

*****

The next morning, around eleven, he stands in front of 221B Baker Street. Not the ridiculous museum, but _their_ 221B. In this London, Speedy’s Café is in North Gower Street and 221B is right next to it, at number 187. His heart leaps into his mouth as he walks the fifty yards from Euston Square Station.

He grips the knocker with his right hand, holding his left rigid and steady by his side. The blood is rushing in his ears now, every heartbeat a solid drum against his ribcage.

It’s like he can suddenly feel all there is at stake. Two Londons, two forces pulling at him, but he can only ever be one person. He has to choose if he doesn’t want to be torn apart.

The door opens. There’s a slightly bewildered boy on the other side of the threshold, clearly a student. He looks like he just fell out of bed.

“You one of Maggie’s friends?”

“My name’s  John Watson. I, er… used to live here before you lot moved in.” __

_Please, God, let them be undergrads who only moved here a week ago._

“I think I may have left something here that’s of great emotional value to me. Could I come in and have a look in one of your bedrooms? There’s a very specific place I think it could be, and you wouldn’t know what it is if you looked at it.”

The bewildered boy opens the door a little wider and John steps in.

*****

“Five minutes, tops. I’ll leave my coat and you can search me before I leave.”

“Nothing worth taking in there anyways,” the boy says with a lopsided grin. “Suit yourself.”

John looks for a hanger for the coat, finds none in sight, and leaves it over the back of a chair.

It’s the same outside door, the same Speedy’s, but the inside is all wrong. No printed wallpaper, no chemistry set. Instead, crimson walls, band posters and undergraduate clutter.

He takes a deep breath and leaves the front room. Like the rest of the flat, Sherlock’s bedroom is nothing like what he remembers. There’s a single bed, a desk piled high with paper, and a bookcase.

He looks at his watch. _Five minutes from now. And go._

He breathes out, concentrates, listens.

_Please. Last night wasn’t a dream. I know it wasn’t._

“Come _on_ , you bastard,” he says aloud. “I’ve done my part.”

After a minute of watching the hands on his watch chasing each other around the clockface, he sits down on the bed. There’s way too much adrenaline in his system right now. He just made a fool of himself. It had better be worth it.

There’s no sound. No music. No apparition. Just John, waiting for a miracle in a stranger’s bedroom.

The seconds turn into minutes while he sits and waits. Three minutes, four, four thirty… His heart sinks in his chest a little deeper every time the hand comes full circle.

Five minutes. Time’s up.

He gets up from the bed and straightens up.

This is what final proof feels like. He’s just going to get his coat, make a dignified exit, walk out of the door of 221B and shut it behind himself forever.

He lays his hand on the the door handle. The spring in the lock clicks, the door opens the fraction of an inch—

Faint, as if from far away, there’s the sound of a violin.

John closes his eyes, overcome with relief, and leans his back against the door. It’s the same piece as always, but there is a physical pain behind the music now as if the violinist has been playing for hours, way past his usual capacity. It’s so palpable that he almost wants to tell Sherlock to stop. He opens his eyes—and sucks in a breath.

It’s Sherlock’s bedroom, the proper Sherlock’s bedroom. The Cluedo board is knifed to the wall opposite the periodic table of the elements and there’s an Ian Fleming novel on the nightstand that he’d lent Sherlock in the first week of living here and subsequently forgot all about.

And Sherlock is here. He’s no longer a mere outline in an imaginary fireplace, but real flesh and blood. He plays the violin with his eyes closed, caressing the strings and wielding the bow on a feather’s breath, making the instrument sing. Even with the pain behind the music, there’s a unity of player and instrument that goes beyond a virtuoso’s technical command. John scrambles for words to describe it, but they all seem inadequate. He can feel the music reaching inside of him, touching him in ways that he wouldn’t have thought possible.

Sherlock was never a man of many words outside of a deduction, but John never quite understood why—until now. He’s heard Sherlock play the violin lots of times before, but never like this, not even remotely. It’s like he’s talking, communicating something to John, and although he has no words for it he knows exactly what it is.

The piece comes to an end on a satisfying major chord. Sherlock looks at John and smiles; that smile that creases his face and always leaves John utterly disarmed.

“You came.”

 “Of course I did. How could I not.”

No question-marks. Just facts, like they’re talking about the law of gravity.

Sherlock half-turns and places the violin on top of the chest of drawers.

When he sits down on the bed next to John, he can feel his body heat. Almost of their own accord, John’s fingers slide over the silky fabric covering Sherlock’s bony shoulders, beneath the dressing gown across the rougher texture of the t-shirt underneath, and so beneath that, over velvet skin stretched across a sharp collarbone.

 _Feels real enough_.

It’s only when Sherlock tilts his head, shifts to rest an arm around John’s waist, and kisses him, that John is certain that this is not an illusion.

He leans into the kiss and cups Sherlock’s cheek with his hand, his thumb tracing Sherlock’s cheekbone.

Sherlock is the first to break the kiss, but John has no idea how long it lasted. Sherlock leans away from him slightly, and they look at each other. John runs his hand down Sherlock’s back and lets out a breath that feels like he’s been holding it for the past few weeks.

Sherlock smiles at him.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Chinese?”

“Oh God, yes.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows in amusement.

“Get your coat.”

The coat is where John left it, or at least in the same physical space. Smiley-face and skull are grinning in unison as John pulls on the coat and follows Sherlock downstairs.

*****

They sit down, order food, and it’s not until John is halfway through his plate of chow mein that Sherlock starts talking with a serious expression on his face.

“There’s something you need to know.”

John nods.

“I hope so. I haven’t exactly had the sanest of months.”

“There’s an alternate version of our city. You’ve seen it. I was supposed to travel through the cracks after I faked my death. But it went wrong, so you ended up there instead of me, and I had to find a way to guide you back. A lot of things happened while you were gone. I worked in secret with my brother and the police, and eventually my name was cleared. We caught most of Moriarty’s men, but one of them is still at large. He’s after me. After _us_ now.”

John’s stomach tightens. After the hollow life of Other London, all the emotions of life with Sherlock are a bit of a shock to the system. He’s still trying to process the phrase _faked my death_ , but there is another question that he needs to ask first.

“Why didn’t you wait to bring me back until after you’d caught him?”

“Would you have come? Three months down the line? Six? Twelve? Would you have come?”

“Is that how much faith you have in me?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. John is grateful because everything he could say would make it worse. He orders another drink, but doesn’t touch the remainder of his food.

They pass the rest of the meal in silence.

“I missed you,” Sherlock finally says when they’re about to leave for 221B.

*****

John gets to the door first and is already up a couple of steps when Sherlock behind him lets out a strangled cry and collapses on the stairs.

“Are you okay?”

John looks down the stairs at Sherlock, who is slumped against the wall. He’s struggling for air.

“No, I’m not. Something very bad has happened. Help me up.”

John supports him with one arm and half carries him up the stairs and into the living-room. He tries to steer him toward his chair, but his hand slips and Sherlock falls to his knees next to the chair, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

John turns his head and nearly jumps when he sees the man sitting on their sofa.

He’s broad-shouldered and dark-haired, all raw muscle and shiny teeth. His hair is military short and he’s languidly chewing a toothpick.

In his right hand is a long shiny, razorblade-sharp sword. In his left hand, he holds what can only be described as the carcass of a violin. _The_ violin.

The wooden body is broken side to side, from one f-hole to another, the neck has been snapped in two places. It’s a caricature of a musical instrument; meaningless pieces of misshapen wood held together only by the fraying strings.

John is by no means an expert on musical instruments, but seeing such unnecessary violence inflicted on something this beautiful makes his blood boil. He gets to his feet and stands tall, his hands balled to fists by his side.

“Who are you, what are you doing here, and why on earth did you… _murder_ my friend’s violin?”

The man pushes himself up to his full height, flashes John a grin and spits out the toothpick. It lands on the floor, covered in a puddle of saliva.

“Hello, Colonel Moran,” Sherlock breathes.

John takes a look at Sherlock, then at the broken violin, and something in the back of his brain is making sense of the situation. Almost.

“Well done, Mister Holmes,” Moran drawls in broad Belfast vowels.

“Answered that first question all by yourself. As for the second: I’m here to make a trade.”

He reaches his left hand into one of his pockets. Sherlock draws his face tight at the motion.

When Moran’s hand appears back in front of him, he is holding a jar. At first glance, John thinks it must be empty. Then he sees flecks of light dancing inside it, like a miniature galaxy.

He looks from the jar to Moran to Sherlock and back with a frown.

“Sherlock, explain, I am not getting this…”

“It’s my soul.”

John straightens up and blinks a few times.

“Okay,” he says.

It’s at this point that he realises that maybe waking up to find that none of this was real wouldn’t be so bad after all. He has just about adjusted to the concept of parallel universes, but now it’s starting to get a bit much.

“Well, half of it. I still have the other half.”

 _Okay, no,_ now _it’s getting a bit much._ John’s frown deepens.

Sherlock exhales.

“A long time ago, I decided that I could do my work more efficiently without it it, since the soul is responsible for morality and most emotions. People can’t live without a soul, but there are those who know how to bond a soul to a physical object. Fully transferring it from the person to an object carries all kinds of risks though, so I chose for half of mine to be taken out of me and bonded to my violin. That way, I could dispose of those emotions for my work, but I could still access and express them when I played it.”

John shivers with goosebumps as he remembers the effect of Sherlock’s violin piece on him when they were in Sherlock’s bedroom, and the encounter that followed. Sherlock looks at him with a sad warmth in his eyes, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“I could see how you felt about me. Always at my beck and call? Leaving your job to be around me full-time? Killing a man to save me, when you had known me for all of two days? A blind man couldn’t have missed that.”

John sits down on the ground next to Sherlock, slightly breathless as he listens to Sherlock’s confession.

“But I had my work to consider and since you kept dating other people, I hoped you would find someone who could love you back. I couldn’t... I can’t. I obviously underestimated you.”

John blinks. This makes no sense.

“You kissed me. Two hours ago, you kissed me so I could be sure it was really you. How can you say that means nothing now?”

Sherlock sighs.

“Think of the way you felt when I played the violin for you. Compared to the way you felt when I kissed you, how would you describe it?”

Sherlock looks into John’s eyes, and the penny drops.

“You wrung the feeling from the violin.”

“Something like that, yes. There is a reason why I don’t play the violin like that around other people very often. There’s always… carryover. Confusion.”

John flinches and is about to say something, but Sherlock clutches his wrist hard, moving his face closer to John’s. “That doesn’t mean… No. I was never confused with you, but I made the decision to cut myself in two halves so long ago that I couldn’t bring myself to reverse it. I’m sorry. I should have realised long ago that you were worth much more than I was willing to give you.”

All John can do is shake his head. He has no answer to that.

Moran clears his throat in the silence.

“The deal, Mr. Holmes.”

 “You can do to _me_ whatever you want, but leave John out of it.”

“You took away someone I loved. You don’t get to plead.”

Moran smashes the remains of the violin on the floor. Both Sherlock and John flinch at the sound of the wood splintering.

 “The contents of this jar in exchange for John Watson’s heart.”

Sherlock lets out a sound that John has never heard from him before. It starts as a low growl, moves through a scream and ends in a cry of fury.

“You can’t possibly ask that of me. It’s _his_ heart. It’s not mine to give. This isn’t fair.”

“We were done with fair a long time ago, Mr. Holmes.”

Moran holds the jar out teasingly, and John lunges forward to try to grab it.

Sherlock’s leg hits him in the shin before he even knows what’s going on, and he falls flat on his face while Moran takes one graceful step back, holding the jar over head height.

The fingers of John’s left hand land on the floor a split second later, three inches from the stump of his hand.

John picks himself up and cradles his hand against his chest. He looks from Sherlock to Moran and back with wild eyes.

Sherlock bites down hard his lower lip before he starts talking.

“I really wish you hadn’t done that,” he whispers.

John glares and grinds his teeth to stifle the pain. “Oh really.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt so he can wrap it around his hand, which is leaking blood on the floor. Getting the buttons free with just one hand is a lot harder than you’d think.

“If that jar smashes, that part of me is gone forever. With the violin, I could always reconnect that piece to myself. But when this goes, it goes... and so will the rest of me.”

John nods.

“Okay. So, say I’m willing to make this deal. What will happen to me?”

 “You’re a _doctor_ , John. You didn’t know about souls, but surely you know what happens to people when you take their hearts out of them.”

John stops fiddling with buttons and wraps his hand in the lower half of his left shirt-tail.

“Right.”

Sherlock’s right: it’s not a fair question to ask.

They both have the same answer to it, but only one of them can make the call.

John steps forward and holds his right hand out to Moran.

“One condition.”

“And what would that be?”

John’s expression hardens.

“You can do to me whatever you want, but you let Sherlock leave.”

“Why should I let him leave?”

“If you don’t, how will I know you’re not just going to kill him anyway?”

Moran makes a quick movement with his wrist, and John feels a sharp pain beneath his left kneecap. The leg buckles and he finds himself on the floor next to Sherlock.

“Deal.”

Moran hands the jar to John with a wicked smile. John passes it on to Sherlock, who looks at him incredulously.

“You can’t do this. I won’t let you.”

“I put my life on the line for you every damn time we went on a case. I would have been done for sooner or later. This is just—logical.”

“Of all the reasons,” Sherlock breathes out. 

He holds the jar between his hands, then presses it to his chest, humming a low note until his whole body is vibrating.

The swirling stars inside the jar stop dancing aimlessly. They arrange themselves into a purposeful order in a spiral around the brightest one in the middle. The jar fills with colour until. It’s glowing and pulsating with bright purple light.

Sherlock unscrews the lid with shaky hands and places his mouth over the open jar. John sees the light gradually fade until there is just one purple pulsar left. Then that vanishes too, and the jar drops from Sherlock’s hand and rolls across the roof.

Sherlock looks utterly exhausted, but at the same time, more _whole_ than John has ever seen him before. _Yes_ , he thinks, _I’ve made the right call._

Sherlock staggers to his feet and narrows his eyes as he looks at Moran.

“Will you give us a moment? One moment of privacy?”

Moran snorts. “Not outside the reach of this sword.”

He takes a small step backwards.

Sherlock sits down next to John again. John catches him in an awkward one-handed hug, their faces touching. Sherlock looks at John’s left hand, which is leaking blood into his clothes, and sobs against John’s shoulder.

 “I’m sorry, John,” is all he can manage before his voice breaks. He’s shaking with emotion and can’t seem to stop.

John grabs Sherlock firmly by the arm and pushes him away in an attempt to bring him to his senses. He presses his forehead against Sherlock’s and cups his face with his right hand.

“It’s no use now. It was my decision. I’ve made it. It’s okay. Listen to me.”

Sherlock nods, stunned into silence.

“Now. I want you to go, I don’t want you to see it happen. Say goodbye to me and then leave.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean exactly that.”

“It’s my fault. I should be here. I should be watching.”

“All that’s going to achieve is make you hurt. It won’t make any difference to me. I want you to remember me alive.”

Sherlock screws his eyes shut and bites his lip. He gives a small nod. John smiles for a split second.

“Give me a last memory that I can hold on to. Can you do that for me?”

By way of answer, Sherlock moves forward, wraps his arms around John’s body, and catches John’s mouth in a breathtaking kiss. John kisses back with abandon. He inhales Sherlock’s scent, fists his good hand in Sherlock’s curls, licks the salty tears off Sherlock’s top lip. He wants to fill all his senses with this moment so he can hold onto it when he goes.

“I love you,” Sherlock says when they come up for air. His face is distorted into an ugly mask, a myriad emotions playing beneath the surface. “God, it hurts.”

“Don’t I know it,” John says softly.

“Is that what it was like for you? All this time?”

“Not all the time. There were the bits when we ran around London and I saved your arse and you were proud of me. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Sherlock sobs and laughs at the same time. It breaks John’s heart to see him like this, but he knows the alternative is worse.

_Not doing that again._

“Other London was worse, worse even than this, because it didn’t have you in it. But in time, I could have got used to even that. I’m sure you can do that too, in time.”

Like an afterthought, he presses his lips against Sherlock’s one last time.

“Not that it needs saying, but I love you too, Sherlock Holmes. Now go.”

When Sherlock doesn’t move, he adds, “That’s an order.”

Sherlock lets go of him reluctantly. He scrambles to his feet and attempts to leave, but Moran blocks his way.

“You’re not getting off that easy.”

Sherlock moves back. Behind him, John gets up with effort. He sways for a moment as he balances himself and puts his weight on his good leg.

“You said you’d let him go.”

“And you believed that, did you?”

John’s hands are shaking with fury as he tugs at the portion of his shirt that’s still buttoned up. The fabric rips and drops to the floor. John raises the remains of his left hand to his chest and draws an X in blood over his heart. He’s prepared to face his fate but he needs to be sure that it’s not a worthless effort.

“This is what you want. That was the deal. You get my heart, he gets his soul. Let him go and take what you came for.”

Moran turns to Sherlock with a bored expression on his face. He hesitates, like he’s considering what John just said.

A second later, he twists his wrist in a rapid motion. There’s a momentary flicker of silver from the steel of the blade, then Sherlock bends over, his arm held across his stomach. Moran opens the door to the staircase.

“Good night, Mr. Holmes. Furthest you’ll get with that is the hospital down the road. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Sherlock throws one last glance at John, who mouths “Get out.” Then he disappears down the stairs.

John straightens his back, pulls his shoulders back, and looks straight ahead, facing the moment the only way he knows how. He always thought he would end his life in the line of duty.

Moran raises his sword.

 

**CODA**

From _Crime and the City: London's Most Spectacular Criminal Cases and the People Behind Them._

 __Extract from _Chapter 2: The Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes_

London, Routledge 2082

 

Little is known in this day and age of what became of the world’s only Consulting Detective. There is no record of any cases after the untimely death of his close friend John Watson. Their relationship has long been the subject of much speculation, and much has been made of the fact that Watson’s death triggered such a dramatic change in Holmes’ life. That being as it may, we will never know for sure. Previous generations have attached a lot of significance to defining their relationship in no uncertain terms, but in this day and age, we have disposed with those labels, so this particular line of speculation doesn’t seem to hold as much interest as it used to.

All that remains of them today is John Watson’s tombstone in the City of London Cemetery, which bears the epithet “The best man and the most human being that I’ve ever met.”

Of Holmes’ life after Watson’s death, we know that he moved out of London. He may have lived at Eastbourne, Sussex, and devoted himself to scholarship; in particular, the study of bees.

Nothing is known about the circumstances of his death, and there has never been a grave or tombstone bearing his name, which prompts a certain percentage of the population to assume that he still walks among us. When his death became public knowledge in 2057, there was a staggering increase in the number of reported alleged sightings, but this craze eventually faded.

The phrase “I believe in Sherlock Holmes,” used by Holmes’ supporters after his reputation was all but destroyed by the actor Richard Brook—later revealed to have been the criminal impostor Jim Moriarty—is still in common use. It has shifted from its original meaning that was restricted to the specific person of Holmes to mean a more general belief that things that are seemingly impossible or unachievable can happen. It is a testament to the enduring impact of Mr. Holmes’ tragically short-lived career upon our national consciousness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If this was the real world, John would most likely have ended up at Queen Eliabeth Hospital in Birmingham, which has a dedicated military ward. According to [the British Army website](http://www.army.mod.uk/welfare-support/23238.aspx), it’s where most of the Afghanistan casualties end up. But since Moffat and Gatiss didn’t care about this and just put him in London, I felt justified doing the same.
> 
> Timeline for his recovery may or may not be realistic. Researched in [this thread](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2314310.html#comments) and decided he was BAMF enough for it to be similar to what the very last person was saying. As far as medical accuracy goes, a lot of the writing on the show (and in fic) is fudged anyway, so this is probably no exception.
> 
> The piece I had in mind for the violin music is [Sigur Rós’s “Starálfur”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2J1aR-PfpE) from their album _Ágætis Byrjun_. I also listened a lot to timeisfiction's _excellent_ FALL-based mix, [_If The Light takes You In_](http://timeisfiction.livejournal.com/5715.html#cutid1).
> 
> [City of London Cemetery](http://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/Corporation/LGNL_Services/Community_and_living/Deaths_funerals_and_cremations/Cemetery_and_crematorium/). Headcanon location: if one of the boys were to go, the other would have him buried here, right in the heart of the city they both loved so much.


End file.
